


Atlas' Shoulders

by salixbabylon



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-20
Updated: 2006-09-03
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salixbabylon/pseuds/salixbabylon
Summary: Eric goes for a ride in the desert mountains with Ewan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my wonderful [heartofslash](http://heartofslash.livejournal.com/), who shared the bunny with me and let me raise it.

Eric's marriage is over.

The press hasn't found out yet and he hopes it'll stay that way for long enough that it won't be news when they do; he doesn't want to have to deal with worrying about publicity on top of everything else. She left him, had an affair, said he was gone too often. And it's true. He knew it was falling apart long before this, but it still hurts, brings back all those adolescent feelings of insecurity and being unwanted, unloved.

The other guys in the cast are loud and boisterous, bonding and playing like they really are recruits. Even the older ones are acting like kids, all except him. Sometimes Eric can't tell if the sadness he feels comes from himself or from Hoot, who's one broody motherfucker. Not a lot of fun to be all day long, although it fits right now, in Morocco. Circumstances being what they are.

Those guys wouldn't understand anyway; most of them haven't been married and don't have kids, can't even imagine the sort of feelings he's having. So Eric sits alone at the bar in the breezy hotel lounge, the only cool place until hours after the sun sets, never mind the calendar. Watching them shoot pool and throw darts and generally play with each other like boys, quietly getting as drunk as he can without courting a hangover.

Orlando joined him once, seeming to have his own melancholy for one night. They didn't talk about it, either of them. But for a while at least, Eric felt less alone, having someone else to share the mood with, as well as a half-dozen shots of whisky. It could have been the booze that warmed him, or maybe the hot, uncertain hand on his thigh, but Eric was grateful to have one night where he didn't feel so isolated.

Of course the sunrise told another story, condom wrapper and clothing strewn across the floor, and a note of five words on hotel stationery: _"No complications – don't worry. Love, O."_ It was that simple.

But it didn't make Eric feel any less alone, really, and fuck, if this is Method Acting, he'll use it but it sucks. Useful but painful, and he hates carrying Hoot around with him twenty-four/seven. At the end of the evening, before making his slightly weaving way to the stairs to his room, he wonders if it's Gibson's closeness to death or his own irrational fears about never seeing his son and daughter again that makes him so distraught. Not that it matters. He can't do anything anyway, and as the shoot drags on, he uses it, hating himself every night for not being sure what he, Eric, even feels anymore.

*****

One night the pattern is interrupted. A heavy arm falls across his shoulders and an empty pint glass clunks heavily onto the bar next to his hand. A thick accent never heard in the daytime rumbles, "Gravity, mate. You've too much of it," in a voice that's intoxicated yet definitely not drunk. Warm.

It continues, "Whisky makes you heavy, pulls you down into the bones of the earth. You need to fly, mate, get above it for a bit."

Eric considers. He does feel heavy, weighed down, almost suffocated. Totally unlike the weight of all that body armor for the scenes they've been filming this week, more internal than external. "Yeah," he agrees, tossing back another shot, the last one he can have tonight and still be a responsible adult.

"We should go out," Ewan continues, twisting his glass around, making patterns in the wetness on the countertop. "Escape for a while, ride. You like that, yeah? I remember you sayin' that, after we were at Basic. We could get some bikes, take off for a few days, get away from everything."

Eric nods. Sounds good. Too good, like a dream, the idea of not feeling this way anymore, getting away from the gloom he carries inside. Is that even possible?

"Great! I'll get the bikes, you find the leathers. I'll take care of everythin' else," Ewan grins and it's all decided.

Eric turns to look at him. "That's it?"

Ewan gives him a look that's both confused, on the surface, and sympathetic underneath. "Yeah."

"Why?" It sounds more guarded that Eric meant to sound, but still. Where did this come from?

Ewan reaches for Eric's bottle and pours himself a shot. He sips, pauses, then tosses the rest down. "Because I know," he says simply, wrapping his arm around Eric again and giving his neck a squeeze, before he hops off the barstool and goes back to the group waiting for him to take his turn with the darts.

Eric finishes his pint, slowly. Thinking about where he'll be able to find leathers and a helmet, and if he's supposed to get them for Ewan as well, or just for himself. About where they'll go. Imaging the wind around his body, imagining getting away from this place, from Hoot, from himself. Flying.

And wondering why Ewan asked him, what he saw that no one else sees, why he'd do something like this. What he wants. If he's just that friendly and Eric never noticed because he's been such a self-absorbed prick for the last month.

Whatever. He'll go. It'll be great. Even if it's just a few days in silence, nothing but the howl of wind and the purr of an engine between his thighs, it'll be great. Even if he's still alone inside.

*****

For the next week, Eric watches Ewan. Watches him talk to the other guys, laugh with them, touch them. Play. But Eric also watches him alone, when he's smoking, staring off into space, thinking. Wondering what puts that serious look on Ewan's face.

It's nice to think about someone else, Eric realizes, and then feels bad that he hasn't been thinking of anyone but himself and his own problems for a long while. The camaraderie they'd built up in Delta training has all but disappeared for him, and they weren't part of the larger group of Rangers anyway. He hadn't realized what an outsider he'd become. That he was lonely.

But maybe he doesn't have to be.

*****

Orlando comes over and sits next to him while they're on break. He doesn't have any scenes left; the kid had a fairly small part and he's finished, just been hanging around in case they needed anything else. He's relaxed and happy, steals Eric's pint and drains it before Eric can do more than raise an eyebrow.

"I'm off tomorrow," Orlando says. "Just wanted to say thanks, you know, for that one night. You're a good friend." He hugs Eric and Eric feels horrible. He's not a good friend.

Orlando must be able to tell, because he pulls back and kisses Eric on the cheek. "You are. Good shag, too," he murmurs, grinning wickedly, before his face shifts back into serious. "Hope you feel happier soon, mate."

The kiss makes Eric's cheek tingle, and he realizes it's been a long time since anyone touched him like that, that Orlando was the last fuck he had, that he hasn't even been jacking off much, he's so far gone from his body most nights, with depression and drink. He feels in his body now, though; not aroused, but there, present. In his skin. It's a good feeling.

He kisses Orlando's cheek and hugs him. "Gonna miss you," Eric says, before he's even thought that it'll be true. "Thanks for, well... Everything, really. I'm sorry we didn't have more time together."

Orlando grins. "We'll keep in touch," he says, and they exchange numbers and mutual appreciation, and gradually Eric relaxes enough to actually laugh for the first time in weeks. Then Eric has to get back to Makeup and Orlando leaves. Eric hopes they'll see each other again some time, and maybe he'll have a chance to make it up to the kid for being so distant. He feels like he made a friend, one he didn't expect, and it feels good.

He goes to bed that night, wholly sober for the first time in months.

*****

A few days later Ewan tells him that he's found some bikes, a pair of beat up BMW Enduros, but they have new tires and Ewan test drove them both. They seem to be in fairly good shape and they'll definitely do the trick.

Eric's held up his part of the bargain, too, and found leathers for them both, just in case Ewan needed them, since he never got around to asking. A map is pulled out of a back pocket, and there in the bar, on a counter wet with condensation and spilled beer, they plot a loop for a three-day ride in the desert mountains.

Two mornings later, they meet outside the hotel at the first hint of light.

Ewan in leathers is not a sight Eric was prepared for. He simply hadn't thought about it, had never thought of Ewan that way at all, but he feels a stirring and is definitely more *present* in his body than he's been in a long while. It's a good feeling, and not too distracting, simply pleasant to feel his body, his cock, there in his own leathers. He and Ewan pack their saddlebags with food, water, and sundries, give the bikes a quick once-over, check for petrol, and then they're off with a minimum of conversation.

The first three hours are an effort, trying to let go of the almost-visible ties that bind Eric into his unhappiness. He's not miserable about being in Morocco, but because he's been so miserable *in* Rabat, he associates the city with the feeling, and riding away from it is like stretching a rubber band thinner and thinner until it snaps and breaks and finally Eric starts to feel like he can breathe again.

They head east, mostly, and for such a hot, dry, dusty country, the air is refreshing in the early morning. The bike handles well, although it's a bit lighter than what Eric's used to and feels strange under his frame. The size seems to suit Ewan better, with his more compact form. Not short. Just not as big as Eric is. And Ewan loves the bike, loves BMWs in particular, and Eric knows that he'll natter on about them at nightfall.

Or maybe he won't. Ewan has the capacity for silence and observation, too. So maybe they'll spend the day together in easy silence. And it is easy. But still silent.

Another hour or so and it's time for some water and to reconsider the leathers. It's warm already and is going to get hot. Ewan thinks leathers should just be standard for bikes, but there's no traffic, they're in Morocco, and aside from a bit of sand stinging their skin, the open air is going to feel a lot better than sweltering inside a full suit. Ewan laughs at Eric's eagerness and agrees, and they strip off by the side of the road.

The scenery as they ride on is amazing. Red mountains, carved and twisted by ancient waters, rocks and sand in a surprising variety of colors, some tenacious bits of green here and there... And Ewan.

Ewan's arse in particular.

Amazing.

After their next stop, Ewan pulls out the map and looks out across the plains at the mountains.

"Ready for some more speed, do you think?" he asks.

Eric snorts at the challenge. "I reckon I can keep up."

They grin at each other for a long moment, the air stirring their damp t-shirts and prickling their mostly-bare scalps. Ewan's eyes are an indescribable color, somewhere between the sky and the sea, full of mirth and possibility and a feeling that Eric remembers as joy. Pure. Simple.

Something inside him responds to that, reaches out to it with an unspoken *YES*, kindling in him pleasure and contentment and peace, here under the pale sky, under those eyes, under that smile. Something like joy. Friendship. Freedom.

After grinning at each other like idiots for an embarrassingly long time, they laugh at themselves, climb on the bikes, and Ewan tears off, pushing the bike from zero to seventy KPH in about three seconds, engine screaming. A moment later Eric's there with him.

It's exhilarating; there's just no way to describe the feeling of this, of flying over the ground, of mastering the danger of losing control, of being really truly totally *fully* fucking alive.

Sand is getting in between Eric's teeth because he wouldn't stop grinning even if he could, and he whoops, bellows, long and loud. Ewan matches the shout and kicks his speed up a bit more. They zigzag around each other on the flat plain, learning how to handle the skid of the tires on hard-packed sand and rock, how far they can push without going too far. They are neither careful nor careless, a bit wild and reckless for men past their twenties, and it feels fucking wonderful.

Finally, Ewan straightens out, leading the way to the foot of the mountains, and they slow down, taking the curves fast but responsibly, letting the giddiness gradually calm. The bonds restraining Eric, the walls surrounding him, have been blasted to smithereens by their ride, by the unadulterated speed, and he feels better than he can remember feeling in more years than he can count.

*****

The sun sets and it gets cooler here in the mountains almost immediately. At their mid-day food break, they'd found a small village on the map that wasn't too far into the mountains and decided to stay there for the night. They approach and are glad to see enough signs of civilization to know other travelers and tourists stop here, too, and they find an inn without fuss.

Inside, though, it's dimmer and dustier and feels more claustrophobic than Eric would have guessed. The reception clerk who checks them in asks if it will be one room or two, and when they hesitate and then answer "One," his expression turns into one Eric hasn't seen in a long time – pure revulsion. In particular, he looks Ewan up and down, scowling, then mutters a phrase Eric can't understand anything of except "Allah" and something that sounds like "homosex." Eric is almost surprised the man doesn't spit, the words are said with such disgust.

Ewan glares and looks like he wants to start something, but Eric just shifts his weight and adds some more money to the pile of dirhams on the counter, smoothing things over. Later, in their room, Ewan rants and raves that he was told that sharing rooms was common and that regardless it was their own fucking business and that he'd forgotten how many close-minded arseholes there were in this part of the world, especially about sex, and about them being outlaws and a lot of other things as he lets off steam.

Mostly Eric doesn't mind and just watches Ewan. He didn't like the way the guy looked at them; of course not. But Ewan all worked up like this is certainly a sight to behold. And Eric figures that in a country where being queer is punishable by death, attitudes like that are probably typical. Although if sharing rooms is the norm, he does wonder what might have made the clerk think that they were more than just friends.

What did *he* see that Eric hasn't seen?

Because Eric's looking now, and he likes what he sees. He has all day, ever since he first saw Ewan in his leathers.

But as far as he can tell, Ewan doesn't seem to see anything. Which is fine; a bit of unrequited lust is nothing to upset a new friendship over. Whatever happens or doesn't, it's all fine with Eric. Already he's feeling a ton better than he has in months, ever since the beginning of the shoot, ever since the phone call where she said the papers were in the mail and could he please sign them right away because she was done with being married to him.

Whatever happens, this trip is already better than anything Eric could have even hoped for.

But what was it about Ewan that made the clerk scowl like that, Eric wonders. Mentally he shrugs. Doesn't matter, and Ewan looks damned sexy all riled up like this, so he'll just sit back and enjoy it.

His grin gets a pillow thrown at him eventually.

"Well, if I'm the poof, then I guess I get the first shower," Ewan says with a naughty smirk.

"Go on then, Princess," Eric laughs, and turns away to unpack, trying not to watch Ewan undress and failing most pleasurably.

*****

After a night made uncomfortable by the disdainful eyes of the local patrons in the inn's cafe and their lumpy separate beds, Eric and Ewan get up early and leave. Winding around more of the hard-packed sandy roads, they steadily climb until it seems like they'll meet the sun. The Atlas mountains glow with the harsh light, shimmering with an aura of heat that truly does feel dream-like.

The curves are nice, tight enough to be fun but not so tight Eric can't let his mind wander a bit as he takes in the scenery.

And, again, it's not just the sand and sun that holds his rapt attention.

Something Ewan said last night keeps flitting about Eric's brain, about being outlaws. So far, nothing they've done has been illegal, of course, minus probably breaking some traffic laws, but even those aren't really enforced outside the cities. The adrenaline from the speed, from the ride, from the *freedom* is better than any other high Eric's ever had.

And he owes it all to Ewan.

Ewan, ahead of him, thighs and arse still wrapped in leather, tight and firm. And that wild, impish grin on his face when he looks back at Eric every now and then.

Oh yeah. If there's anything illegal about the two of them, it's that Ewan, astride a bike with that look on his face, has got to be against the law in every fucking country on the planet. He's fucking lethal.

*****

Mid-afternoon, they look at the map again and there's nothing nearby. Last night clearly leaves an unpleasant taste in Ewan's mouth, and they decide to camp instead of riding god knows how long in the darkness to who knows what kind of accommodations. The topic of camping in general gets tossed around a bit; Eric asks when Ewan last went and where, and then Ewan turns the question back on him.

Eric pauses, not to think about his answer, but just to remember. "I took the kids," he finally answers, but that's all he says.

"Want to talk about it?" Ewan asks.

Eric shrugs. "Not much to say. We're splitting up and the kids will be hers, since I'm gone so much."

"That's rough."

Eric shrugs again.

Ewan is silent for a moment, and then turns the conversation back to their route and some of the fantastic cliffs they'll be riding past. Eric doesn't feel like it's dismissive though; he feels like Ewan's just accepting that he truly doesn't want to talk, and doesn't seem to feel hurt that Eric doesn't want to. He feels accepted. Comfortable.

And it's nice.

And Eric does feel better for having said it out loud, however minimally. To have not been told that he's being stupid, or that divorce is common in this business, or not to worry about the kids, or whatever. Ewan *does* understand.

And that's better than words can say.

*****

They set up camp and make a simple dinner, then sit around an unenthusiastic campfire that doesn't do much to warm them against the surprising chill of the night. It's really fucking cold for a day that was too hot for leathers, but Eric guesses that it *is* January, and extremes of temperature are pretty normal for the mountains.

There's no water, of course, other than what they brought with them, and they'll have to stop at the first village they pass in the morning to refill their bottles. They could both do with a shower to wash off the desert grime, and Eric, frankly, could do with the privacy so he could jerk off. Ewan's arse, in leathers or in jeans, is just a bit too tempting to look at all day and then be able to relax at night.

And Ewan keeps fucking *touching* him.

A friendly slap on the arse as Eric's adding bits of scavenged wood to the fire. A hand on his knee as they both crouch down, heating up the food. Tousling his short hair (rubbing his fingers over Eric's scalp, more like) in reply to Eric's grumbling, as Ewan stands beside him while he feeds the fire.

And Eric, looking over, face to face with Ewan's crotch and letting his eyes linger longer than is seemly.

Ewan really is lethal.

And Eric is enjoying the danger more than he ever dreamed.

*****

As the embers die down, they break out sleep sacks and whisky, to ward off the cold as best they can. They're prepared, sort of, but hadn't expected the breeze to be so chilling. They've set up a wind-break, which has helped a lot, and Eric feels proud for having suggested it.

The stars are so bright, and there are a million more of them than Eric thinks he's ever seen before, even at home. Or maybe that's the whisky talking, since he seems to have consumed a surprising amount of it, although Ewan's certainly holding his own. They're sitting close together, whether for body heat or to facilitate the ease of passing the bottle back and forth, Eric doesn't know. He does know that it feels nice.

Very nice.

Ewan's an easy guy to be around. Friendly. Understanding. Easy-going.

And fucking hot.

But thoughts like that are perhaps not appropriate for mates-sitting-around-a-campfire. Then again, maybe they are. Ewan seems comfortable. Eric is, too, but not quite enough to lick the taste of booze off Ewan's mouth, unprovoked.

Yet.

His eyes keep wandering there, though, and staying. They're nice lips. Not full, not sweet, but nice. Although they don't hold a candle to those eyes, so greenish-blue, and why isn't there a word for that changeable color, Eric wonders. That intensity.

Intense because Ewan's staring back at him, Eric finally realizes. Oops.

Being caught staring at his age is uncomfortable in a way it just wasn't a decade ago. Then again, what's he afraid of? Ewan could hit him, he supposes, but he knows that won't happen. Still, Eric hesitates.

With a snort of laughter, Ewan moves forward and presses their mouths together.

Ewan's lips are cold and confident, with a pronounced flavor of whisky and a clear desire for more. Eric pulls him closer and they kiss for long moments. It's not urgent, not sweaty-hot, but easy and comfortable instead, the slow build of heat from embers rather than the sharp crackle of flame. It's nice.

Ok, it's better than nice, but that's the only word Eric can come up with right now, since *he's kissing Ewan.*

And he hasn't realized how much he'd wanted this to happen until right now. Ewan's arse had been lovely to look at all day, but the thought that all he has to do is slide his hand down Ewan's back to feel it is fucking thrilling.

Wait though. Suddenly Eric's blood, which has been moving steadily to his cock, freezes.

"Um. Eve?" he says.

Ewan pulls back far enough to meet his eyes. "It's all right. Really." He pauses. "You want to talk about this, then?"

Eric nods, and he'd be blushing if he did that sort of thing, but he doesn't. He does feel awkward, though.

"All right," Ewan says, moving away slightly. "I want you to believe me, mate; I'm not saying this just to get a shag, right?"

Eric nods again.

"Eve and I have an understanding. It's very modern, I suppose, but really, it's just practical. I'm gone a lot, she's alone. We love each other, love the girls, want to stay together. But it's not realistic to expect monogamy to work under those circumstances, you know?"

Boy does he. Eric nods again, feeling a bit like one of those nodding dogs in the back window of a car.

"So this is fine. You and me. Or not; whatever you want. But it's fine for me, fine for Eve; you're not going to do anything to hurt our relationship. And it doesn't mean that I can't care about whoever I'm with, either; it's not just about trying to get my leg over. Whatever happens is fine. Whatever you want. All right?"

Ewan's eyes are so sincere, Eric can't help believing him, even if he wants to be somewhat skeptical. He bets Ewan has said this speech rather a lot, a good-looking young bloke like him. A thought occurs to him and he's asking before he's even thought, "You allowed to fuck women too, or just men?"

Laughter. "Women, men, sheep, whatever. Eve doesn't care and neither do I," Ewan grins. "Now do you want to come back over here and snog some more? We don't have to do anything else, if you don't want."

Eric rolls his eyes. "I'm not some nervous virgin, you know. I just wanted to... make sure I wasn't fucking you over, you know?"

Ewan wraps his arms around Eric's neck and pulls him down for a slow kiss. "Thanks. Now, how about this fucking business, yeah?"

Their kisses build in intensity, both of them having the same style, the same energy, teasing and yet devouring. Soon, Eric's hard and throbbing in his jeans, but he doesn't want to push. Or rush. That would be a waste.

The thing with Orlando had been a lot more casual - a lot more inebriated to be honest - and this is just different, somehow. More purposeful. Less likely to end with a politely English thank you note and a promise to not be complicated.

Maybe Eric wants complicated.

Than again, straightforward is awfully nice, too, he thinks, as Ewan squirms up on top of him.

"Felt you looking at my arse all day," Ewan mumbles, moving Eric's hands to the lovely cheeks in question. Eric can't help but squeeze, the pleasant shape of the curve filling his palm. "Do you want to fuck my arse, Eric?" Ewan purrs.

He shivers. "Yes." His manners kick in before and he can stop himself, Eric's saying. "Yes, please," but then feels both a bit presumptuous and embarrassingly like he's begging, so he adds, "Do you bottom?" after a brief hesitation.

Ewan laughs. "Yeah, I do. Do you?" he asks with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Haven't in decades," Eric shrugs, "But then, haven't done a lot of things in a long time that I'd like to."

"Well, let's do some," Ewan answers, and before he knows quite how it happened, a fully naked Ewan is rubbing himself against a still-clothed Eric.

That's just wrong.

Eric rolls them both over so he can fix that, and soon enough they're both free of clothes, skin to bloody glorious skin, and fuck, but it's better than Eric could have anticipated. Two days of looking at Ewan's arse really did make for a fucking brilliant build-up, and Ewan's laugh when he shares that thought warms Eric far more than the campfire ever did.

The way their legs tangle, the way the *hair* on their legs tangle, the feel of lean hard hot flesh against Eric's own, the breathlessness of kissing Ewan out here, under the zillions of stars, in an illegal country, with the taste of sandy dust all around them – it takes Eric's breath away.

And his control. He pushes Ewan down, harder than he'd intended, asserting some dominance in a more physical way than he usually does. Eric's a big guy, but he doesn't really ever need to use his strength or size, people just roll when he pushes. Not Ewan though; there's a touch of resistance there, for a moment, a challenge in his eyes, before Ewan relaxes and lets himself be nudged into place.

Eric's torn about how to do this; having him face up just feels too... *familiar* for right now, but on all fours is too distant. So they end up on their sides, one of Eric's hands wrapped around Ewan's whole torso, pulling them close, while he starts exploring with his fingers.

Ewan halts them briefly to stretch in the most fucking gorgeous manner to fish supplies out of one of his bags, and then before Eric's quite prepared for it, mentally anyway, he's sliding his fingers into the hot grip of Ewan's arse. The arse that's been the focal point of his last few days.

And, another nice surprise, is that Ewan's bendy enough to be able to twist back and kiss him at the same time that Eric's fucking him with his fingers. Lucky fingers, Eric thinks; they always get to go first. He's jealous of them on behalf of his cock, but then he stops that kind of thought because of the noise Ewan makes.

Apparently Ewan quite likes what's going on. And is vocal about his enjoyment. Obscenely so. The obscenities are almost funny, very colorful, and in that gorgeous rough accent that usually only shows up when Ewan's been drinking.

"Come on, yeah, fuck me with those huge fucking hands" is one of the more coherent things Eric manages to catch, since there's a lot of words he can't quite make out, and maybe Scottish really is another language. Still, the eagerness and enthusiasm of the man in his arms is unquestionable, whatever he's saying, so Eric stops only briefly enough to suit up, and then he's sliding into Ewan's delicious, glorious, wonderful, marvelous arse.

It is an arse that should be praised.

Abundantly.

By everyone.

Everywhere.

But not Eric, because he's way too caught up in fucking it just at the moment.

He slides into Ewan's body, arm wrapped around him, licking the sweat from his neck, feeling his breath on the side of Eric's face, and it's brilliant. The thrust and plunge, the way Ewan's hips shift backwards, the way the pitch of his voice changes and those incomprehensible dirty words spill out when Ewan starts to jerk himself off – it's just overwhelming. It's too much, but still not quite enough, although it's getting there quickly.

It's like flying. Like riding way too fast, but never worrying about wiping out. Like everything good, every good fuck Eric's ever had, every good *thing* Eric's ever done, in his whole life.

It's like being free.

And Eric comes with a bellow like an animal, like some wild beast that Ewan broke free from inside the cage of Eric's former life, and it knocks the wind out of him for a moment.

When he shakes the sweat out of his eyes, relaxes his death grip where he's probably bruised Ewan's hip, he hears Ewan gasping for breath too, in that spent, satiated, thank-god-I'm-still-alive kind of way.

"Fuck, I missed it," Eric says, thoughts spilling out uncensored.

Ewan laughs around his gasping for air. "Don't worry, mate, I sure didn't."

"Wanted to see you come," Eric pouts. He bets it's a sight to see, Ewan, fully out of control like that. Ah well. Next time. If there is a next time.

They lie in each other's arms for a moment, breath evening out, sweat starting to turn to chill. Ewan groans when Eric pulls out of him, and dabbles his fingers in the mess on his belly. "Fuck. We definitely need to bathe now."

Eric pulls out yesterday's nasty t-shirt from his pack and mops them both up as best he can. "Wonder if there'll be a hammam in the village?" he wonders rhetorically.

"Hope so," Ewan grins, "Because with the way we smell, there's not going to be any question of what our relationship is."

After a quick slap on the arse, some good-natured tussling, a few kisses, and final arrangements of the sleeping bags, they settle in for sleep.

*****

When the sun rises the next morning, Eric can't stop smiling. Despite being itchy with dried come and what feels like half the sand of the Sahara in his hair, he feels pure. Liberated. Free.

They get water and petrol in a village so small it's not even worthy of the name, but no bath, just a quick sluice down with water from a tap outside behind a building. They laugh and talk companionably, no noticeable change from the day before, except that Eric's not trying to hide the fact that he's still checking our Ewan's arse at every possible opportunity. Everything feels free and easy, more simple than Eric could have imagined, although he's a little sad wondering if this will happen again or not.

They stop for lunch across the plains from Rabat, the ride back being smoother and less of a challenge than the ride away was, coming downhill from the mountains meaning they pick up speed more easily, but that they have to watch the curves a bit more, too. Don't want to lose control.

Except that Eric does, sort of.

Not of the bike, but of himself.

Last night was great, but... Well, they'll see what happens.

Rabat is small and dusty in the distance, a haze surrounding it that Eric would have thought of melodramatically as a haze of sadness when he left, but the sight of the city doesn't make him feel sad anymore. It's just a place, just a movie, just a life. Things will change, changes are already in motion, and some of them are out of Eric's control, but it's ok. He's not mourning for what he's lost anymore, but looking forward to the great things that might come. He's refreshed, emotionally, ready to get on with his life.

And all it took to relieve the weight from his shoulders was three days of motorcycling into the desert mountains with Ewan.

Well, fucking him helped a lot, too.

Ewan notices him looking out across the plain at the city. "You ready to go back?" he asks in a voice that's more gentle than Eric would have expected a few days ago.

"Guess so," Eric shrugs.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." Eric smiles. They wait for a while, each thinking their own thoughts. Then Eric asks, "So, uh, is this a one-time sort of thing?"

Ewan looks over at him, a bit of a smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "What do you want it to be?"

"I don't know," Eric hedges.

Ewan snorts. "Well, you know where I live. Anything's ok with me, mate. Always."

Eric stares at the city, thinking hard. Anything is a pretty big offer. And while Ewan may not mean *any* thing, Eric would be a fool to turn it down. And he's not a fool. A bit dense sometimes perhaps, a moody bastard for sure, at least recently, but not a fool.

"Sounds good to me," Eric grins. And they climb back on their bikes and ride back to the city, and Eric knows that something good has begun.


	2. Dreaming in Morocco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to heartofslash stumping me - an Atlas' Shoulders universe drabble

Ewan, bent over, draped across the bike, legs spread, arse on display. Air and sun and breeze from the foothills all around them.

Just for Eric.

The smell of leather fills his nose, even though all he sees is pink skin, pale in the sunlight. Warm under his hands and mouth, tight as Eric presses into his hole.

No, Eric's tonguing him first. Bent over, just like that. Yeah, the taste of sweat and cock and arse. Eric's mouth everywhere all at once. His mouth waters.

Eric wakes at dawn, hard as a rock, ready to go for another ride.

~end~


End file.
